Chapter 21: Qinglin Market

Dawn.

A thin mist hung hazy.

Qinglin Market sat atop a green mountain, surrounded by towering green trees.

The peak was shrouded in thick fog, partially obscured; at its base stood rows of shacks, mostly built from massive local timber, cramped and suffocating, with no drainage ditches—wastewater flowed freely.

“This is Qinglin Market? Reality is far worse than the rumors…”

Fang Xing wore a green robe, his hair tied in a topknot, a basket slung on his back; his face had been disguised into that of a simple, good-natured youth, indistinguishable from the locals.

He sighed, remotely controlling a simulated yellowbird descending from the sky, slipping into his basket.

He had spared no effort for today’s exploration.

He had planned multiple escape routes, worn a basic nanofiber protective suit beneath his robe, and carried an electric baton at his waist—fully armed.

Moreover, throughout his journey, simulated bird drones had constantly monitored his surroundings, helping him avoid several groups that looked clearly dangerous.

“Is this a cultivation market or a slum?”

After entering the shantytown, a foul stench hit him—he couldn’t help fanning the air before his nose.

The road was muddy, overgrown with wild grass, occasionally revealing a gleaming white bone…

It looked like a human femur.

“Damn…”

Fang Xing stared at a corner ahead—there lay what seemed to be a fresh corpse, stripped completely bare, no telling who had killed him.

A few passersby hurried past; occasionally, eyes peered through cracks in wooden planks or behind windows.

Everyone treated the corpse as if it were ordinary.

‘Chaos, disorder… death could come at any moment?’

‘Surviving in this environment must impose enormous mental pressure!’

Fang Xing silently scoffed, then his gaze sharpened.

A tall, thin middle-aged man approached, clad in a gray Daoist robe, his expression cold and gloomy.

More importantly, as he walked, faint threads of spiritual light shimmered along his robe!

‘Spirit robe? A cultivator?’

Fang Xing’s heart leapt—he quickly imitated nearby martial artists, stepping aside to clear the central path.

Some martial artists even bowed deeply, faces filled with humble, flattering smiles.

Everything felt natural, as if governed by unspoken custom.

‘Etiquette, hierarchy, survival of the fittest…’

‘If I hadn’t stepped aside and bowed, would I have been killed? And would anyone care?’

With heavy thoughts, Fang Xing climbed upward out of the shantytown.

The mountain path was paved with green stone slabs, some covered in moss—quietly picturesque.

Halfway up the mountain, large buildings became visible, neatly arranged, with clean stone-paved ground.

Several martial artists swept nearby, some carrying wooden buckets like servants.

After walking another dozen meters, Fang Xing saw an archway inscribed with four large characters: ‘Qinglin Market.’

Inside the market, crowds thickened; vendors lined both sides of the road, selling all manner of odd goods.

Rare flowers and herbs, vegetables and fruits glistening with morning dew, animal hides, flesh, and bones, piles of pure white rice…

And of course, various strange weapons, peculiar talismans, and bottles and jars…

Many stood before stalls, either gazing intently or haggling.

Fang Xing observed coldly, confirming that most trade here was barter; the most commonly used currency was something called ‘spirit sand’—the grain-like crystals in his hand.

Besides stalls, the market housed numerous shops.

Qingdan Shop, Baibao Pavilion, Huolian Workshop, Xiao Fu Hall, Tingyu Tower…

Some names clearly indicated their wares; others required guesswork.

Fang Xing paused briefly before Tingyu Tower—soft, seductive music drifted to his ears; he instantly knew what sort of place it was.

“Young sir, wanna play? Just one spirit stone per session!”

Perhaps he lingered too long—a woman with half-exposed chest waved at him, her gaze dripping with allure.

‘Spirit stone? Seems to be a higher-tier currency than spirit sand.’

Fang Xing’s heart stirred, but he feigned a slight blush, shyly backing away—earning a chorus of tinkling laughter behind him.

Half an hour later.

“How much for this Zhulong grass?”

Fang Xing stopped at a stall, pointing to a crimson, jade-like herb with thick leaves.

The vendor was an old man resembling a farmer, smoking a brass-tipped pipe; wisps of smoke curled from its bowl.

Hearing Fang Xing’s question, the old man didn’t hurry—he took another slow, satisfied drag, then lazily tapped the pipe against a nearby green stone slab.

The slab bore a deep indentation—clearly worn by years of habitual tapping.

“Zhulong grass is two spirit sands per plant… but if you’re selling to me, it’s one spirit sand per plant.”

The old man spoke slowly.

“How do you know?”

Fang Xing’s heart jumped; his face betrayed nervousness, like an inexperienced youth.

“Heh…” the old man grinned smugly: “I can smell the herb’s scent from a zhang away—it’s Zhulong grass, isn’t it? Trying to get a higher price, you’ve been asking around…”

“You’re truly… sharp-eyed, sir.”

Fang Xing smiled innocently.

He had prepared extensively for this market trip—his main stock was Zhulong grass!

After all, the wild boar beast’s territory had plenty of this herb.

Using drones to harvest posed little risk.

This time, Fang Xing had brought twenty fresh Zhulong grasses, ready to test the market.

“To be honest, only Qi Condensation cultivators find Zhulong grass useful… martial artists just earn their hard-earned coins. But lately, demand’s risen—otherwise, normally you’d need two or three plants to get one spirit sand!”

The old man, with no other customers, spoke casually: “Young man, I won’t cheat you—your Zhulong grass fetches the same price in shops, but I’ll give you a discount: ten plants for eleven spirit sands…”

“I don’t have that many—these few are all I managed to scrape together.”

Fang Xing shook his head, his face showing hesitation: “I’ll look around some more…”

He said no more, turning and vanishing into the crowd.

The moral bottom line of people in this world is too low—I can't trust them…

“Compared to that, at least shops have better reputations…”

“My small profit shouldn’t be worth a shop ruining its name… but individuals? Who knows.”

After weighing everything, Fang Xing decided to sell at a shop—even if the price was lower.

“Talismans for sale! Freshly drawn: Wind-riding Talisman, Fire Rain Talisman, Golden Bell Shield Talisman, Spirit Detection Talisman… come take a look!”

At this, Fang Xing was drawn to another stall—his expression turned serious.

The vendor was a middle-aged man wearing a spirit robe, its surface shimmering with spiritual light—he was a cultivator!

“Wind-riding Talisman: stick it on your legs, makes you run like the wind—essential for travel. Cheap! One spirit stone per talisman.”

“Fire Rain Talisman: Rank One, Low-grade attack talisman—five spirit stones.”

“Spirit Detection Talisman: detects spiritual roots. Everyone knows mortals without roots can’t cultivate. Maybe you were misdiagnosed as a child—today’s your second chance to defy fate! Only eight spirit stones!”

Fang Xing’s heart stirred as he turned to the last talisman: the ‘Golden Bell Shield Talisman.’

It sat dead center on the stall—clearly a premium item.

“Rank One, Mid-grade—Golden Bell Shield Talisman: can withstand several attacks from a Qi Condensation mid-stage cultivator. A true gem! Only three spirit stones—I’m taking a loss!”

Fang Xing had learned by now that ten spirit sands equaled one lower-grade spirit stone—he found the vendor’s words amusing.

He squeezed out of the crowd, compared prices at several shops, then entered ‘Qingdan Shop!’

He chose it because it was clearly a pill shop—likely needing herbs.

Second, the green leaf emblem on its sign matched the mark on the Qixue Pill bottle—giving him a favorable impression.

“Sir, what medicine do you need?”

A bright-eyed, lovely girl greeted him as he entered.

Even seeing Fang Xing as just an ordinary martial artist, she showed no trace of disdain.

‘In Weiying Star, this would be standard service—but here in Qinglin Market, it’s rare…’

Fang Xing sighed inwardly, then spoke: “I want to sell herbs… Do you buy Zhulong grass?”

“Of course. One spirit sand per plant. How many do you have?”

The girl paused, then replied.

“Just these…”

Fang Xing removed his basket and laid out twenty Zhulong grasses.

“Hmm. Freshly picked. Technique’s a bit clumsy, but the medicinal quality remains intact… Twenty spirit sands total. How does that sound?”

The girl inspected each one carefully, then quoted her price.

“Agreed.”

Fang Xing spoke sparingly—soon the girl took the herbs and produced two crystalline stones.

“Lower-grade spirit stones?”

His eyes lit up as he took the spirit stone and placed it in his palm.

The low-grade spirit stone was no larger than a fingernail, translucent and crystalline, its internal mist thick and dense, sending a cool sensation through his palm.

“Is there anything else you need, guest?” the girl seemed eager to make another sale.

“Qi-Blood Pills…”

Fang Xing paused, then asked tentatively: “How much do they cost?”

“Qi-Blood Pills are for mortal martial artists—very cheap, just one spirit stone per vial,” the girl replied with a light laugh; though her tone remained unchanged, it naturally carried an air of superiority.

“I’ll take one!”

Fang Xing handed over the spirit stone he had just received—still warm from his palm—and received a jade vial identical to the one the female martial artist had seized.

After leaving Qingdan Fang, he glanced toward the stalls, then entered another building with thoughtful intent: “Xiao Fu Tang.”